Lucky
by Frosty Autumn
Summary: Steve is given the day off, but as every superhero knows, there's no such thing. Calamity follows no schedules. And as Pamela Pellandini, a young twenty-something, knows, she's not a good swimmer. On a fine sunny day like this one, she's going to either be very lucky, or very unlucky. ONE-SHOT


**Just a story of some superheroing in-between monumental disasters. Afterall, people like Steve don't wait for events where large groups of people are in danger, they help whoever needs it.**

* * *

The creatively named Summer Festival took place every summer. Pamela Pellandini lowered her camera and checked the display screen depicting a shot of a paddock filled with ponies giving children rides. Perfect.

She let the camera hang by the leather strap around her neck, and took an invigorating breath of warm summer air. Her heart inflated along with her chest. Buttery popcorn, candy apples, the damp freshness of the nearby river; all combined into one beautiful aroma. A positively gorgeous day.

Crowds of festival-goers stretched across an enormous country spot that was split right down the center by a wide river. On either side was pavillions featuring native dances from different cultures, kiosks serving exotic food, and cartoonish, mechanical rides for children. At twenty-two, Pamela knew that even with her very compact height, no amount of tucking in her short legs was going to make her fit on those rides anymore; still, what she wouldn't have given to ride The Dragon Tunnel again. Mrs. Pellandini still had the picture of an ecstatic ten-year old, missing-toothed Pamela holding tight to her safety bar when the carts whizzed by in time for the photo to be snapped.

Pamela swept her heavy black bangs out of her dark eyes, along with a sheet of sweat, and squinted past streaming sunlight. She stood on the tips of her toes, but sighed and gave up on trying to see how far the grounds spanned.

"Pammy! Pammy, look!" her mother said for the fifth time since they had arrived, patting her shoulder and pointing to yet another display.

"I see it, mom," sighed Pamela as she fiddled with the camera, adjusted the zoom, and snapped another picture.

Satisfied, Mrs. Pellandini led the way past food carts along a bicycle path, situated on the edge of the river which flowed through a canal fashioned from gigantic, grey stones. Water lapped lazily twenty feet below, licking at green algae that festered on the water line. Ever since Pamela was a child, she never liked getting too close to look over the edge - the old-fashioned stone ledge keeping people from tumbling in was only knee-high.

She followed her mother automatically, passing a couple funhouse mirrors standing in the shade of a three-storey wooden building that served ice cream year-round. The Summer Festival brought this shop four times as much business than any other time of the year.

Pamela couldn't resist looking at one of the mirrors as she passed. Her squat reflection, almost as wide as she was tall stared back at her. It looked like she'd been crushed by an anvil.

"Pammy?" called Mrs. Pellandini a little ways ahead, swivelling side to side.

"Coming," called Pamela, jogging to catch up and side-stepping a stroller.

"Come on, take my picture," said her mother brightly, posing next to a large plank painted like a ruler that measured the tallest man ever on record. It was a drastic height difference considering that Mrs. Pellandini was a few inches shorter than even her daughter.

Pamela looked through the view finder but couldn't fit the entire nearly ten foot tall display. The full effect was necessary.

"Hold on," she called, lifting a finger to signal Mrs. Pellandini to stay put. Her mom's grin stayed frozen as Pamela took a few steps back and looked through the viewfinder again. Almost there, the top two feet were still cut off.

* * *

Steve slid his hands into the pockets of his tan slacks, nodding approvingly as he took in the sights. Director Fury thought it best to let Steve freely roam for the day, believing it to be beneficial to the soldier. A simple festival was less jarring compared to the multitude of other major adjustments he had no choice but to conform to. It would take time to get used to everything. Still, by now he was at least breathing easier and spoke more freely as he grew accustomed to a new life in a time he wasn't prepared for. Backing down was never an option for him. Never.

A pair of aviator sunglasses, courtesy of Tony, hung folded from the collar of his black polo shirt. When Steve commented that he didn't own sunglasses, Tony plucked the pair right off his head and tossed them to Steve.

"Now you do," said Tony.

"I can get my own," retorted Steve, reaching to hand them back.

"Keep it, I've got fourteen more."

"Sunglasses?" Steve nodded indifferently. Of course, he shouldn't have been surprised.

"No, of this brand. Endorsement deal few years back. You know, I be seen wearing them, I get a few complimentary baskets of free merchandise, that kind of thing."

"I see," answered Steve, aware that Tony's definition of _few_ wouldn't be found in the dictionary. He inspected the sunglasses by rotating them. They were a type he was quite familiar with: Ray-Ban aviators. They were a miniscule bit of his previous life, though not even close to being a big part of it, but he appreciated a little semblance of familiarity whenever he could get it, a reminder that the world he once knew hadn't completely disappeared from under his feet.

Steve had brought his brown leather coat with him in case it would rain. It seemed like a silly precaution now, being that the sky was so perfectly clear, so it sat over his shoulder unused.

A short, black-haired young woman in a yellow t-shirt was raising her camera up ahead. Steve politely slowed down so as not to stroll through her picture.

* * *

Mrs. Pellandini jolted, her smile instantly disappearing.

"Pam, PAM, watch it!" she shrieked.

Pamela's heel hit something solid. Unfortunately her back did not, and she was thrown off balance. Her heart missed a beat as she wind-milled her arms to steady herself, but she didn't have to look behind her to realize that the river was awaiting her after a twenty-foot drop.

"Careful, ma'am!" said someone next to her.

A strong hand gripped Pamela's shoulder, righting her back into place. She latched onto the thick arm instinctively, heaving a sigh, and slouching forward to over-compensate in case she wobbled backward again. Pamela turned her head in a flash and came face-to-chest with a man in a black polo.

"Are you alright?" the man asked calmly in a way one would speak to a victim.

Pamela raised her eyes to meet his own. "Yeah," she breathed. She looked over her shoulder cautiously into the river, and then back down on the sidewalk she stood on. "Yeah."

Mrs. Pellandini nearly crashed into Pamela and squeezed her free shoulder.

"That was so close," she fretted, holding onto her daughter's arm to make her feel stable. "Are you okay?"

Pamela nodded blankly. Her heart still raced from her moment of dreadful surprise.

Mrs. Pellandini turned her attention to the man. "Oh, thank you. Thank you _so_ much, sir!"

The man looked momentarily uncomfortable, as if he felt the woman's thanks was disproportionate to what he did. A little unplanned dip in the water was annoying to be sure, but the fall wasn't long enough to be life-threatening, he thought.

"Thank goodness you were here," continued Mrs. Pellandini, "My daughter's scared of water, she can't swim."

Clarity dawned in the man's expression. He regarded Pamela again. "Oh, I see."

Pamela was rendered silent. It was embarassing enough at not paying attention to her distance from the low wall, but now her mom was sharing her problem with water. She wasn't particularly proud of her inability to swim, or her dislike of large bodies of water in general. Rather ashamed of it, actually.

"Well, rest assured, ma'am, if that were the case then I would have jumped in right after her. You ladies have a nice day."

"Thank you," blurted Pamela quickly before he could turn around, suddenly realizing that she hadn't told him yet.

"You're welcome." The man nodded politely and continued on his way.

Pamela stared at his retreating back ponderingly. She couldn't help but notice that he was quite a snappy dresser. His shirt was tucked in, and even his dirty-blond hair was neat and combed into a side parting. He looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn't quite place where, who, and when.

"Pretty nice view from behind, isn't it?" said Mrs. Pellandini cheekily. She glanced at her daughter, to the man, then back to her daughter again.

"Hm?" Pamela blinked rapidly. "What? Oh! Oh no, I wasn't - "

"What, you mean he's not cute?" Mrs. Pellandini teased.

"I didn't say that, I-I mean he's good-looking I guess, but I thought-...nevermind, let's keep going," she said firmly, but a glowing redness in her face stood out like a lighthouse beacon.

"If you don't want him, can I have him?" Mrs. Pellandini said brightly, following Pamela.

The knee-high walls surrounding the river were impractical, but they weren't really designed for people, they were for keeping cars from plunging into the water. During the Summer Festival, the two roads on either side were blocked off for the festival's duration to set up food and souvenir kiosks. Building the barriers any higher would have blocked off the view from inside the car, so it was never done. During the festival days, a couple signs posted every twenty feet warned to use caution so as not to fall over. Most of the event planners just hoped for the best that people would use common sense and watch their step...which Pamela reminded herself was what she almost did.

She and her mother proceeded about their day, visiting several spots in the next hour, including taking in a fifteen-minute stage show featuring traditional Ukrainian dance, a display of medieval British clothing, and they both tried moussaka for the first time.

Mrs. Pellandini checked the pamphlet for the map once again.

"Oh look, Pammy," she said excitedly. "In twenty minutes, some planes are going to come by."

Pamela glanced at the pamphlet to see for herself. World War II planes were planned to fly overhead, trailing colorful smoke into patterns above the festival.

"Just like Grandpa used to fly," Mrs. Pellandini added, poking the glossy paper. "Let's take a look. We should be able to watch it on the bridge."

The bridge connecting the two sides was constructed from the same masonry as the barriers were, giving it a quaint, old country look. Black lamposts stood at intervals on it's railings. While unimpressive during the day, at night when the lamps lit up, the scene was purely picturesque. It was also a popular spot for proposals, especially in the evening when everything was illuminated and the river sparkled in reflection.

The river below flowed through four evenly spaced arches underneath, large enough for motor and tour boats to pass through.

A trickle of festival-goers were already making their way to get a good place for the airshow. Pamela snapped a quick picture of the bridge before trailing her mother to the center-point area.

"Perfect," said Mrs. Pellandini, shielding her eyes while surveying the sky.

In the next few minutes, the walkway was filling up to the point where no one could spread their arms without touching someone else. Luckily people were respecting eachother's space, so it wasn't suffocatingly crowded. Pamela couldn't recall the last time she'd heard so many pardon's and excuse me's.

A single jet flew overhead, signalling the beginning of the show. Cameras and camcorders rose like periscopes out of the sea of heads. Mrs. Pellandini took their camera out of her daughter's hands. Pamela didn't mind, she had been snapping shots since they had arrived, might as well be in a few of them. Minutes later, a fleet of five World War II era planes trailed overhead. Everyone on the bridge craned their heads to get a better look. Pamela leaned her back against the railing to accomodate more space. She stepped onto the curb that the railing was screwed onto, raising her just a few inches above people's heads and arms that shifted every so often to get the best shot.

More people were squeezing themselves onto the bridge, for it was the best vantage point. Pamela stayed steady at her spot, not wanting to give it up, for the sake of getting good pictures. She lifted one leg, half sitting on the railing to ensure her place.

The planes circled back in a geese flock formation, slicing through the sky and roaring as they passed. Aircraft enthusiasts cheered. Pamela watched in mild interest as a new fleet was coming their way, this time trailing smoke in red, white, and blue lines, and then maneuvering sideways to split apart.

"Excuse me, pardon me," said a middle-aged man politely as he side-stepped his way near Pamela, holding his camera. He accidently nudged her with his elbow as he backed up. "Sorry," he said quickly while looking through his display screen.

The engines were so loud that no one heard Pamela's yelp as she lost her balance. She swiped to grab the nearest lampost. Only she missed.

* * *

Steve walked in the direction of the bridge. The pamphlet said that the air show would feature World War II planes. It was a nice reminder that what he once knew hadn't been forgotten by the world of today and that he could see for himself that his time period existed. Reassuring even.

"Pardon me," he said every once in a while, delicately squeezing through.

Upon reaching the bridge, he was disappointed to see it almost completely full. Engines roared overhead. He craned his neck to try and find a better spot because his view was blocked by an enormous, overhanging oak. He looked to the bridge again. A yellow shirt stood above most heads; he recognized her instantly as the girl he stopped from tumbling into the water. He was about to look away to continue finding a good spot when she completely dropped out of sight. His face fell. The girl dropped so quickly that it seemed odd. He stood on his toes to get a better look. Just in time he did, because her feet did a complete arc over and then disappeared just as a plane zoomed above, causing the crowd to applaud. Nobody made any indication that they knew what just happened.

"Move!" Steve commanded as he forcefully shoved his way through a crowd so dense that it was like swimming in snow.

* * *

"Look, Pammy!" squealed Mrs. Pellandini, reaching behind to grab her daughter's shoulder only to claw at air. "Pammy?"

Mrs. Pellandini spun around to find her daughter gone. Ripples and foam expanded in the river below, lining up exactly to where he daughter had been standing.

"PAMELA?!" shrieked Mrs. Pellandini, clasping the railing and leaning over.

Her panic caught the attention of surrounding people who faced her curiously. Steve broke through the crowd, nearly catapulting himself over the railing in his effort to reach it. All he saw in the river's surface was a few bubbles and foam. A slab of stone jutted out two feet underneath the spot he was standing on. Fresh blood stained the corner of it.

Waiting for Pamela to surface wasn't an option.

Steve threw his coat off his shoulder, planted his hands on the railing and launched himself over. Plunging into the bone-chilling water, he spread his arms to slow his downward momentum and swept the rising curtain of white bubbles out of his face. The coldness of the water snapped his spine rigid.

If the blood was any indication, Pamela had already been under for too long. He hadn't forgotten what her mother said about her inability to swim. Steve opened his eyes, but that did nothing, the water was too brown and murky. All he could see was the sun making the water sparkle above, but luckily it also acted as a compass for him. It was easy to get disoriented when you weren't able to see anymore than a few inches in front of your face.

Steve twisted, kicked, paddled, and spun, following the current, certain that it was taking Pamela along with it. A large shadow above blocked out the sun; he was swimming through an arch. He kept his eyes open despite now having so little light. As limited as his sight was, he needed as many senses as he could use. Sunlight slid back into view.

His lungs were tightening. All he was seeing around him was murky nothingness. He twisted in a full rotation, knowing he couldn't stay under for much longer. Where was she?

To his right was a square of green amongst the muddy brown. He swam to it, taking no chances. The closer he got, the lighter the green patch became. Bubbles escaped his mouth. His throat was beginning to burn. He wouldn't leave Pamela behind, though. The green lightened to yellow. The patch was her t-shirt sleeve. Hope inflated Steve's lungs, staving off the need to take a breath. He reached out, wrapped his fingers tightly around her arm and pulled her in. The girl floated stiffly, unstruggling. Steve's hope punctured.

With Pamela safely in his arms, he kicked to the surface, raising her body above himself to get her up there first. Another spurt of bubbles escaped his mouth. His body begged to breathe again. The water was becoming clearer. He gave one more great kick and shattered through the surface, right after Pamela. He sprayed bitter river water out of his mouth, gulping air. Applause rang from the bridge.

"Pamela!" screamed Mrs. Pellandini, leaning over the railing from high above. Two men were holding her back in case she was about to jump in, too.

Steve held Pamela securely around her middle, leaning her head on his shoulder and paddled with one arm to an aluminum ladder between the arches. He grabbed a rung and lifted the both of them out of the water, positioned her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and climbed.

"Come on, man, come on, we gotcha," coaxed a man with an enormous beer belly and a greying buzz-cut. Reaching down, he helped haul Steve and Pamela up. Steve lifted a leg over the railing, one after the other, eased Pamela off his shoulders and laid her down on the ground. Her stringy hair clung to her face, webbing like dark cracks in porcelain. A shallow gash streaked her hairline, affirming Steve's suspicion that she hit her head before falling in.

"Stand back, stand back," bellowed the buzz-cut man, holding his arms out against bystanders, "Give her some air!"

Steve swept Pamela's hair back, studying her condition. She wasn't breathing. _She wasn't breathing_. He was prepared to begin CPR when Pamela coughed weakly, spitting up water. She rolled over suddenly and hacked deeply as more water poured from her mouth.

* * *

The water was cold but it burned all the way up her esophagus and splashed onto the bridge as she coughed it up. Pamela turned on her side and gasped agonizingly, feeling as though the water was shredding her lungs. An immense stinging in her sinuses welded her eyes shut and she huffed desperately to snort the blockage out of her nose until part of it cleared on it's own seconds later. Her chest heaved as she filled it with sweet air that she couldn't get enough of.

Propping herself onto her knees and hands, she wobbled as she vomited. When it was over she leaned her back against the railing, disoriented. Unknown to her, her soaked shirt was see-through, exposing her bra. Steve swiped his leather coat from the ground and wrapped it around her shoulders to save her modesty. Pamela instinctively held the jacket but her mind was unable to focus. She felt dizzy and blinked several times to get rid of the feeling, but the haze couldn't clear.

"Pamela!" shrieked Mrs. Pellandini, kneeling and holding her daughter's face carefully. "Oh thank God, thank God!"

Steve shifted to give her some room. He flicked his head to get his dripping hair out of his eyes.

Pamela concentrated, then felt a tenderness at the crown of her head. "Ow..." she groaned, gritting her teeth.

"It's okay, Pammy," soothed her mother. "The paramedics are coming, just stay here."

The fog was lifting by the second. Pamela became more and more aware. She shivered, suddenly feeling very cold, and tighted her grip on the jacket.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief. Not bad for a spontaneous rescue - he wasn't congratulating himself, only that Pamela came out of her near-drowning alive. Mrs. Pellandini threw her arms around his neck, catching him off-guard.

"You saved her! Bless you, you saved my daughter again!".

Steve steadied himself. "It was nothing, ma'am," he assured as Mrs. Pellandini began to cry. She let go of him and held her daughter's hand.

* * *

Pamela watched him, trembling her lips as though she meant to say something but was at a loss as to what. Saying thank-you was as unsufficient as cooling down a volcano with an ice cube. Her nose still stung from the water, and no amount of rubbing and wiping could make it stop. This man had gone beyond out of his way twice in one day for her. Within the span of a couple hours.

"I..." she began, but still, the gratitude was so immense that it got lodged in her throat. She stared at him almost disbelievingly. "It's you again."

Instantly she regretted that being the first coherent thing she said to him, it sounded so stupid.

Steve smiled. "Just couldn't resist the water, could you?" he said lightly.

Pamela smiled weakly, leaning her head back. "I guess so," was all she managed to say. She wished she could have given a better answer than that, or even a cool, clever quip like, _Guess I don't need to shower today, then,_ or if she was feeling especially flirty, _Maybe you can be my flotation device again sometime._ She wasn't sure about the extent of her injuries but the good news was that her sense of humor was still intact.

"What's your name?" she asked, still feeling a little out of it.

"Steve," he said.

"Pamela," she replied.

"I know, I remember."

"Oh," she said mildly, as though Steve had merely told her the time.

The haze in her head had almost completely disappated. That was when the throbbing in her head started, and then she remembered exactly what happened to her. She was surprised to find that surviving near-death made her delirious. The gravity of the situation just wasn't managing to stick.

The paramedics arrived and checked her vitals. Just to be safe, they loaded her onto a stretcher and wheeled her into the ambulance.

* * *

Pamela reclined in her bleachy hospital bed, now all dry and stitched up, watching the small T.V. they offered. Her unplanned dip managed to make the six o'clock news.

"_And then the guy just jumps in after her,"_ a middle-aged man with a greying buzz-cut and a large beer belly said into the reporter's microphone. He made a diving motion with his hand. Pamela was sure she had seen him on the bridge.

The shot cut to a mocha-toned woman holding her toddler. "_He just started pushing people out of the way, I had no idea what was going on at first." _She boosted her baby on her hip. "_Then people started looking into the water and obviously someone fell in."_

_"The guy's a hero,"_ said the buzz-cut man, with a large amount of respect.

The stitches along Pamela's hairline left the area tender. The doctors had to snip off a small section of her bangs to reach the gash. Her hairstyle was a little lopsided now and the stitches were visible, but she displayed them both like a badge of survival, a remnant of a stranger's kindness.

Still though, a thought was niggling at her brain, digging itself deeper. Who was he, and why did he look so familiar to her? She stared at the ceiling, trying to remember exactly what the man looked like and tried to do a cross-section with her memory. It was like some sort of CSI sequence was running through her mind, and she tried not to get distracted by the Law and Order theme that suddenly decided to start looping in her head.

She was sure she hadn't seen him on T.V., she'd seen his face on a still. A picture, maybe. A newspaper...

Pamela's spine went rigid as the thought crashed into her. A picture! She was ten years old again, looking through a box of old photographs with her grandfather. Grandpa never talked much about the war, but on this particular day he seemed contemplative when Pamela had asked about it, and they both spent the afternoon together going through some momentos he kept from that era.

The stack of photos were all shot in black and white, true to the time, but had yellowed a lot over the years.

"You see this guy right here?" said Grandpa, tapping a particular spot on one squared photograph.

Pamela leaned in. The man Grandpa was pointing to seemed nothing out of the ordinary, a soldier like many of the others, dressed primly and properly. "Uh huh," she said.

"He didn't look like much when we first saw him. Heck, even I thought he was a joke. I was part of the 107th infantry that was trapped behind enemy lines. This guy Steve Rogers right here? Saved us all. Grandpa owes his life to this guy."

With her small, stubby fingers, Pamela held the picture carefully, as if age had turned it into tissue paper. Steve wasn't even looking into the camera but off to the side, like the picture had been snapped without his knowledge. His light hair was combed neatly to the side. Pamela had almost memorized the contours of his face before handing the picture back. She understood even then that if her grandfather owed his life to this man, then she did as well.

Pamela clutched a piece of starched hospital bedsheet in her moment of eureka. The man who saved her from drowning was Steve Rogers. _The_ Captain America! Her heart began to pump rapidly. She pressed her palm on her chest to get a hold of herself, but it only made her feel just how hard it was truly beating. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, though, it was almost like excitement; happiness in serendipity.

* * *

Mrs. Pellandini saved the newspaper in which Pamela's accident had appeared. It wasn't some front page spread, national news type stuff, just a column on page five. Nevertheless, even Pamela thought the article was worth keeping.

**An Unlucky Plunge** read the glaring headline.

Pamela didn't know about that, she thought she felt quite lucky, actually.

_**THE END**_

* * *

**If you read all the way to the end, you're awesome and thanks for sticking with me :D**

**This little one-shot began simply as a writing exercise that I thought up almost exactly a year ago when I was looking at a stone arch bridge over a river. I was thinking of the best ways to describe it on paper. I had seen the Avengers movie a week earlier, and...somehow the two ideas merged? Yeah, I don't understand the thought process that went into that either...**

**The title 'Lucky' was originally supposed to reference something else in my first draft. Pamela was going to read something from Steve's fangirl club who were saying that they were jealous and that she was so lucky to be rescued by Cap, while newspapers were dubbing her as unlucky. But already the story was going on too long, and all that added stuff would make it even longer. So I changed the story's last two scenes into what it is now.**

**Yep, so this is basically one of those little rescues that superheroes do from time to time when they're not saving the world from some widespread crisis. Feel free to leave a review or comment on your way out, if you so wish :D They help sharpen my writing skills, so if you leave one, it's super-appreciated.**


End file.
